


Shoot The Poets

by Tazza1993



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 02:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11244480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tazza1993/pseuds/Tazza1993
Summary: Robert could have sworn that the lead singer was gazing at him as he sang into his mic. What was he singing about? It was probably some girl who had fucked him over, Robert decided. It always was with these brooding types. With his plain white t shirt that clung to his defined form and his sad eyes, he looked like the pining type.Alternate Universe.





	Shoot The Poets

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a song by The Cribs.

 

It was purely accidental that Robert ended up in the tent where the bands that nobody has ever heard of find themselves relegated to. He had every intention of finding himself in close proximity to the main stage - the one where the beautiful, scantily clad girls danced near, wiggling their bare hips and puckering their lips as they sang along to Clean Bandit. It was just Robert's luck that he ended up stranded where the strictly B listers end up, whining woesome lyrics about lost loves and dreams that are out of reach. So what if the main singer in this particular whine fest was actually kind of hot - it was not like Robert had noticed at all was it?

 

_Lost and Found_ \- that's what they were called. They were a three man band with the sort of nostalgic beat and longing lyrics that Robert avoided like the plague. In Robert's experience the sort of songs penned by that type of band were always about being lost, about wanting the unattainable, about being vulnerable. Robert was not vulnerable at all, thank you very much. But still, that didn't mean he was immune to good looks and the sort of cheekbones that would look very good stuffed with his dick.

 

It was lucky that Victoria was not there to see Robert staring at the lead singer with the seemingly absent minded scruff and intense blue eyes. She had been worryingly occupied with matchmaking for Robert as of late - ever since he had garnered the courage to tell her that he was bisexual. He shouldn't have worried about telling Victoria - his little sister had always loved him unconditionally. Sometimes she loved him so much that it felt suffocating in fact. Robert was used to people loving him in a way that was expendable - like his father, like Chrissie, like Lawrence (his so-called surrogate father). People either died or they loved him with conditions. It was freeing in a way, not expecting people to stick around. Why try if they were always going to leave anyway? Victoria, in startling contrast, loved him in a way that longed for him to be happy. Robert wasn't particularly good at being happy - he loved all the wrong people. He always had and he feared he always would. Chrissie had been the ultimate mistake. She had been everything that Robert should have wanted but had somehow come up lacking. Lacking in what, Robert couldn't be sure. But she definitely must have been lacking in something because despite her stunning looks and admirable independence he had ended up fucking her sister. And her male cousin (so what if she hadn't realised that part yet).

 

Robert could have sworn that the lead singer was gazing at him as he sang into his mic. What was he singing about? It was probably some girl who had fucked him over, Robert decided. It always was with these brooding types. With his plain white t shirt that clung to his defined form and his sad eyes, he looked like the pining type.

 

His mother had liked songs about lost loves and heartbreaks. She used to sing along to them as she had washed the dishes - Robert watching her as he scrawled in his colouring books at the kitchen table. Jack had been more pragmatic, he had always needed to return to the fields and hadn't found the time to dither, listening to the radio. Even when he had, Jack Sugden had been a strictly country music man. He certainly wouldn't have had time for all of this Indie rubbish. Robert didn't either. But then why couldn't he take his eyes off the shapes the lead singer made with his lips as he surrendered himself to his words? Why was his foot tapping along to the relentless rhythm of the guitar? Why was he still lingering in the tent at all?

 

Robert pushed himself forward, telling himself that it was because the song, against his better judgement, was actually kind of catchy. He found himself tapping his foot to the beat absentmindedly, trying to catch the singer's eye. Sadly, he was the intense type that closed their eyes as they crooned the words to their masterpieces, getting lost in the moment. He was surrounded by the kind of chino and Ray ban wearing hipsters that Robert disliked on principle. And there wasn't even the slightest amount of eye contact on the singer's part to make the ordeal worthwhile. In no universe was Robert Sugden ever buying tickets to a festival again (even if it was for Vic's birthday. She had disappeared as soon as she had clocked eyes on the first curly haired, smiling bloke who had taken her fancy anyway. Robert wasn't bitter at all. So what if he had forked out £300 for two tickets).

 

When the band had finished their set, Robert still wanted more. He wanted to see the blue of those eyes up close. He wanted to hear that husky voice vibrate in his ear. He wanted to show the singer that whoever had broken his heart enough to pen a six verse song about was nothing compared to Robert. He wanted to show him that songs about heartbreak weren't half as satisfying as songs about lust, songs about wanting.

 

God, did Robert want that singer.

 

***

 

When Robert Sugden wanted something, he didn't pine. It was probably why he'd never liked the sort of songs that _Lost and Found_ crooned. He was a strictly take what you want kind of guy - a David Guetta sort if you were. He pursued what he wanted and certainly did not have time to moon around after the sort of girl or guy that didn't want him back. But then, the sort of people that Robert Sugden usually went after weren't really a challenge were they? And the vast majority of them weren't half as alluring as the lead singer that Robert had misguidedly spent a half a set trying to edge closer to. The sort of fingers that could manipulate a guitar like that would probably be worth a bit of effort, Robert thought. They'd feel especially good strumming his dick. Robert was willing to bet on it.

 

Because he wasn't the pining type, Robert moved towards the VIP area with intent. The members of _Lost and Found_ hadn't wasted long before traipsing into the special bar area set aside for bands. Although, Robert thought, it was sort of narcissistic to consider yourself a VIP when barely 200 people had bothered to turn up for your set. The singer with the blue eyes was busying himself drinking a bottle of Budweiser and chatting to his bandmates. He was probably critiquing their performance, like the pretentious fake celebrity he was, Robert decided. He was only about a metre or so away from him, when a burly security guard blocked Robert's path, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.

 

"Do you have authorisation to be in this area?" asked the security guard.

 

Robert snorted, not bothering to conceal his derision. "Didn't realise I was trying to talk to John Lennon, mate."

 

The security guard assumed the expression of someone who thought he was far more important than he actually was. Robert realised he had misjudged and prepared himself to be thrown from the tent, slightly deflated that he had squandered his chances of getting close to the singer.

 

That was until he heard an amused chuckle from somewhere in front of him. It was the lead singer - his face lit up with amusement. "Let him be," he snickered. "He's obviously drank enough to give himself an overinflated sense of self importance."

 

Robert raised his eyebrows, dared to step around the security guard in order to make eye contact. "Oh yeah? I'm not the one with the bodyguard? Famous enough to be in danger of being assassinated, huh? And I thought you were just in a second rate band."

 

When the singer omitted an unrestrained, throaty laugh, Robert's heart inexplicably missed a beat. "Fuck you," was his amused reply.

 

"I'm Robert," Robert said, doing his best to appear composed. "Are you going to tell me your name, or is it classified information?"

 

Aaron paused for a beat, and for a moment Robert worried that he was about to be brushed off. But then he smirked and said, "I'm Aaron."

 

Aaron was such a cliché name for a fucking singer in an Indie band, thought Robert. If he was not careful he would end up the subject of a stupid, lovelorn ballad called _Robert_. He couldn't think of anything worse.

 

***

 

The VIP area was humming with what Robert supposed must be a sort of post performance buzz - the people around him all seemed wired, adrenaline fuelled, self congratulatory. The tent echoed with the sound of clinking beer bottles, laughter and the faint strains of distant guitar beats. Robert was not even slightly ashamed to admit that he was buzzing too - he had got what he wanted after all, he was close to the man he had spent the last hour checking out. Close enough to be able to make out his distinct scent of sweat, beer and aftershave. Close enough to be able to vividly imagine the way his mouth would twist in pleasure when Robert made him come. Close enough to have to lean into him to hear him speak.

 

"What did you think about our set?" Aaron asked.

 

Robert bit back a laugh at the predictability of it all. They were always desperate for praise, these Indie singers - he had probably already halfway towards convincing himself that Robert was some kind of _groupie_. Aaron didn't look like the type that spent his days basking in insecurity about his 'talent' and his nights chasing his fears away with whiskey but then you could never really tell, Robert supposed. He knew he should spout off some bullshit about the authenticity of the bass guitar or how much the lyrics resonated with him.

 

Instead, he smirked and said, "You've never played at a festival before, have you?"

 

Aaron raised an eyebrow in surprise. "No, this is our first," he said. He had to lean upwards, just a tad, in order to reach Robert's ear. Robert found himself a little bit aroused by it. It was a bit of a revelation if he was being honest because Robert's usual turn ons tended to involve exposed skin and brazen self confidence. Throughout all of Robert's extensive dating history this had to be his most innocent arousal ever (then again, he had spent the better part of the band's ten song set fantasising about Aaron's lips around his cock, so not entirely innocent then).

 

"I can tell," Robert replied, still smirking.

 

"Oh yeah?" Aaron bristled slightly. "Some kind of expert, are you?"

 

"I don't need to be an expert," Robert retorted. "I just know that you're so busy stringing together pretentious words and making everything into a metaphor that you seem to have forgotten that everyone here has been drinking since midday. They don't need meaningful lyrics, they just need a good beat and a catchy chorus they can dance to."

 

Aaron crinkled his nose up as he gave Robert an assessing look. "Er, not everyone comes here to get hammered, mate. Some people just love music."

 

Robert laughed. "Keep telling yourself that."

 

There was a beat of silence and Robert wondered if he had pushed too far, if he was about to receive a punch to the nose for his efforts. It definitely wouldn't be the first time. Then, Aaron laughed and Robert exhaled through his nose, relief palpable. "You're a dickhead, you know," Aaron said in between chortles.

 

Robert shrugged, already knew as much. He might have been a dickhead but with Aaron looking at him with sparkling eyes and a wry smile, he found that he couldn't quite bring himself to care. He had always thought that being nice was overrated. Maybe Aaron thought so, too.

 

***

As the evening continued, they wandered over to the main stage together. Aaron's two bandmates were long gone by now, having disappeared into their night with their guitars and keyboards, goodbyes on their lips. Robert couldn't say he missed them, they were sort of cramping his style. Paddy, Aaron's manager, had tried to convince Aaron to go home with them, pleading that he needed to rest his vocal chords for tomorrow's gig. Aaron had glared at him like he really wanted him to fuck off and Robert had been relieved when he did.

 

"Not very rock and roll, is he?" Robert had snickered, when he had finally let them be.

 

Now they were lingering at the back of the enormous crowd, standing closer together after the copious beers they had consumed between them. Aaron was funnier, less liable to take himself seriously, than Robert had previously imagined. Which was good, because Robert was beginning to wonder whether he might be serious about Aaron. Typical, he berated himself. He had come to a festival thinking he would find a quick, easy fuck, and now he was probably going to leave with a problematic crush. Although with a bit of luck, he might still get the fuck. It wouldn't be an easy one though.

 

Robert tapped his foot in time to the music, some mainstream stuff that he vaguely recognised from the radio. He heard a little snort, turned his head and caught Aaron mid laugh. "Oh, stop being such a music snob." Robert said as he shook his head, amused.

 

"It's shit, mate," Aaron laughed.

 

"Not everything has to be all deep and meaningful, you know. You can just enjoy yourself and have a dance." Robert rolled his eyes, refusing to be goaded.

 

"So why did you come over and talk to me if you thought our music was rubbish?" Aaron asked, only half joking now.

 

"I didn't say it was rubbish," Robert answered. "I said your music takes itself too seriously."

 

"Same difference," Aaron shrugged. "You didn't answer my question."

 

Robert stared at Aaron, decided to take a leap of faith. "I thought the lead singer was pretty fit," he quipped.

 

Aaron smiled and Robert continued to move to the beat of the throbbing music. He could feel Aaron watching his hips as they swayed.

 

***

 

Later, when they kissed, Robert was not at all surprised to find that Aaron moved his lips around Robert's with the same intensity that he wrapped his mouth around particularly emotional lyrics. Robert had only known Aaron for a few hours but he already knew that Aaron did everything with maximum intensity. Singing, flirting, fucking - he was one of those people that gave his all to everything. As they kissed, Robert imagined Aaron's passion, his yearning, his feelings, pouring from Aaron into him, making him more than he was a few hours previously.

 

Aaron made Robert want to feel something other than the usual aloofness that consumed every single part of his life.

 

Aaron made Robert want to be worth singing about.

 

Aaron just made Robert _want._

 

***

 

Even later, when they were fucking, Aaron let out a string of expletives as he came.

 

"Fuck, Robert, fuck," he cursed, in one long breath.

 

Once Robert caught his breath, he let out a fond chuckle. "And I thought you were meant to be good with words," he joked.


End file.
